Mr. Bear is basically a saint. Especially in bed.
Wait, wait. Don’t go.
This isn’t about to get inappropriate or weird. Well, inappropriate anyway. It’s pretty weird. But just quirky-weird. Not “I want to curl up like an armadillo and
un-know all that stuff about your toe fetish” weird. This isn’t about our attempt to act out 50
Shades of Grey with lunchmeat hand puppets, or anything.* It’s about how I’m wired wrong. I panic at bedtime.
The night always starts off perfectly
normally: some halfhearted debate over what time to go to bed, then
teethbrushing. Jammers. Pills taken.
Face washed - because, let’s face it, the days when I could expect to
sleep in my makeup without waking up looking more or less like a moray eel are
over. Thermostat adjusted. Doors and windows checked. Decorative bed pillows banished. I swear there was a time when I just went to
bed when I was tired. Now it seems like
preparation for some Olympic sport.
Which is probably an apt comparison, because what's about to
happen is like a triathlon of crazy.
*If someone were to do this and put
it up on YouTube, I’m pretty sure we’d all become famous. Just something to think about.
